


It Starts Over a Drink

by kuryakins



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Gen, M/M, gaby and illya are bff, gaby being queen of everything, illya could absolutely be a fisherman in another life, kink from uncle, men being boys, napoleon is head over heels for illya and illya won't give in, operation protect illya kuryakin at all costs, seduction prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:46:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5282585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuryakins/pseuds/kuryakins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a KinkfromUncle prompt: </p><p>Illya/Napoleon (seduction bet)</p><p>Napoleon bets Gaby that he can seduce anyone. Gaby bets Napoleon that he can't seduce Illya. Napoleon's favorite suit is their wager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caught in the Game

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written in at least two years, so be gentle, please! I loved this prompt, and be assured, there will be more! I am commander of the "Protect Illya Kuryakin AT ALL COSTS" squad, so there will be all kinds of Illya adoration in this story. The full prompt is this:
> 
> Napoleon bets Gaby that he can seduce anyone. They agree the stake (probably something like Napoleon's favourite suit but happy to defer to the author if they have better ideas) and Gaby reveals whom she wants him to attempt to seduce: Illya, of course. 
> 
> Napoleon is reluctant, either because he's worried about what it might do to the team dynamic or because he's been throwing out some subtle hints to Illya already and Illya hasn't responded. Nonetheless, he's confident he can do it and they agree, possibly setting a timescale within which Napoleon has to carry out his seduction.
> 
> My preference is that he succeeds and both he and Illya really enjoy it. But if you want him to technically miss the deadline so that Gaby can have a victory of her own, I am okay with that as well.
> 
> Movie verse, prefer no OT3.

It starts over a drink. These things usually do. This time, however, there’s no alcohol, a lot more caffeine, and they’re posing as siblings reunited for an exotic holiday, sunning themselves at a terrace café on the Amalfi Coast. Napoleon lazily watches the crowds, seemingly more interested in short summer dresses, taut calf muscles, and designer heels than in the point of this outing-- keeping an eye on the Italian branch of a Swiss bank across the square. 

“Napoleon!” Gaby hisses, all teeth, glaring at him across her gelato and their small café table. 

Solo averts his gaze to his partner, eyes widening and eyebrows arching insolently toward his hairline. “Yes?” he responds. Calm, deliberate, infuriatingly poised. 

Gaby shakes her head at him, shooting an almost imperceptible glance toward the bank. Napoleon takes a sip from his coffee, completely ignoring her suggestion that he return his attention to their mission. There is a sudden outburst of loud voices near the bank and Gaby tenses, immediately hyperaware. When it turns out to be a couple of friends embracing excitedly she relaxes again and looks back toward her partner. He is very pointedly not looking anywhere near the bank, and instead she follows his gaze to where it has landed on a gorgeous woman standing at the railing overlooking the sea and smiling at him from under a wide-brimmed floppy hat.

Gaby sighs and kicks him under the table. She laughs when Napoleon straightens abruptly, nearly spilling espresso onto his suit in surprise. 

“Well, that was certainly uncalled for,” Napoleon grouses, deep lines etching themselves into his forehead as he pouts and rearranges himself in his chair.

“We should be keeping our eyes on the mission, not using them to seduce and undress every attractive person in the square, dearest brother.” Gaby smiles for the sake of the ruse, playing the part of adoring baby sister laughing at something her beloved big brother has just said.

She’s a natural, Solo thinks, even as he reaches down to massage his shin. “It pays to know every face.”

Gaby bursts into a fit of genuine laughter, shaking her head, eyes twinkling. “Solo, you’re so full of shit your eyes are brown.”

Napoleon scoffs, feigning offense. After a moment Gaby sobers, but continues smiling at him infuriatingly. 

“I don’t know what you mean, darling sister,” Napoleon enunciates the last two words, glaring. 

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean. Have you ever thought that maybe not every single person on this continent wants to sleep with you?” 

Solo’s eyes soften and he chuckles, one side of his mouth curving up, his dimples indicating just how amusing he finds her comment. “You can’t surely be counting yourself as the exception, can you? I’ll have you know I am incredibly charming. I also happen to be suave, charismatic, and completely irresistible.”

Gaby glances around for a moment, feigning boredom. Her eyes narrow as her gaze falls back on her partner. “Are you quite finished?”

Napoleon puffs out his chest and smiles broadly back at her. “Have you ever known anyone who can resist my charms, little sister?” He asks loudly, smug. He’s asking a rhetorical question. 

“Have you met me?” Gaby replies, leaning forward in her chair, challenging.

Barking out a laugh, Napoleon blinks slowly and shakes his head. “I’m not stupid.” 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he drawls, “I’d rather not have my ass kicked. I saw what you did to the hotel room in Rome, and I believe I know Peril well enough to know he didn’t actually lay so much as a finger on you even as you threw his giant ass around the room.” 

Gaby smiles, appreciating his answer. She laps at a bit of melting gelato on the underside of her spoon while Napoleon diverts his gaze back toward the crowds of people. His friend at the railing is gone. He smiles to himself, thinking he’s placated Gaby with his assessment and won this battle easily, but he spots her glaring at him when she catches him flashing a seductive grin at a small group of girlfriends passing close to their table. What she doesn’t know, and what he won’t tell her, is that this all really is just a game to him. It’s a challenge he creates for himself, something to keep him on his toes. Sure, he loves the attention, loves knowing that he truly is as debonair as he leads people to believe, but the prize isn’t the same as it once was. Not since Rome. 

One of the girls whispers conspicuously to her friends and they divert from the flow of people to take seats at the table next to Napoleon and Gaby. Napoleon glances at Gaby and laughs softly when he catches her rolling her eyes again.

“Didn’t mother ever tell you never to roll your eyes? They’ll get stuck that way.”

She ignores him.

“It’s not just women, you know,” Napoleon says confidently, digging a little deeper.

“Oh, believe me. I know. But since you brought it up, you forgot to add another person to your list of people you haven’t succeeded in seducing.” 

“And who’s that?” 

“Illya. Clearly you have a thing for him, although I haven’t figured out quite yet if you just want to get him into bed or if you really, truly have feelings for him.” 

“Of course I care for him. He’s my teammate,” Napoleon defends. 

Gaby pretends to ignore him, but this quick defensive answer is proof enough that Solo does care for Illya. “Which makes it even more annoying that you continue to hone your skills on others. I guess you need the practice, huh?” 

The waiter interrupts before Napoleon can respond, so instead of firing back at Gaby, he orders two more espressos and pointedly instructs the waiter to deliver three additional drinks to the girls’ table. After their coffees arrive and Solo has successfully hooked the girls on his line with his devilish smile, he glares at Gaby and moves to stand, intent on taking the empty seat at the neighboring table and introducing them to Jack Deveny. 

As he begins to rise, Napoleon spots a head of blond hair towering above the rest of the crowd, weaving toward them. Gaby spots Illya too and Napoleon settles back into his chair, abandoning his game and forgetting about his pretty prizes. Gaby smirks at him, but Napoleon ignores her.

Illya is still making his way through the heavy crowds. He spots Gaby and Napoleon, eyes darting quickly to their table, nonchalantly making eye contact before looking away again, searching for any signs of unrest. Illya is nothing if not professional, and Napoleon can certainly appreciate that about him.

“I wonder if he’s found something,” Gaby mutters. 

“Looks like he has,” Napoleon answers. Gaby glances at him quizzically before looking back toward Illya. Women all around him are openly staring as he passes, enthralled with his stature and his solid presence. Some interested males glance his way as well, a handful of interested parties admiring the view and others, husbands and boyfriends, jealously shooting daggers at him.

It’s hard to discern whether or not Illya is oblivious or actively ignoring them all. Napoleon wonders if it might not be a little of both. He thinks about what Gaby said, that he really hasn’t been able to seduce Illya, although he’ll be damned if he concedes that to her.

They momentarily lose Illya in the crowd, and when it breaks to let a Vespa through, they spot him, stooped to help a young woman with directions.

“Oh, she’s not lost, Peril. She’s playing you like a fiddle,” Napoleon mutters. “Look at her outfit, the way she carries herself in those heels. Her handbag. She’s clearly Italian. She knows exactly where she is. You’re caught in her game, amico mio.” 

“Is that jealousy I hear?” Gaby asks, cocking her head and leaning back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest satisfactorily. “He’s not stupid, Napoleon. Or blind. He knows exactly what’s happening. You’re not the only game in town.” 

From across the square, Napoleon watches as the woman laughs at something Illya says, leaning slightly into him and placing her hand on his arm. The woman is confident, devastatingly beautiful. It’s in her shoulders, she’s dangerous. She reminds him of Victoria Vinciguerra and he dislikes her immediately.

“He’s good,” Gaby says.

“She’s good too,” he responds off-handedly. “And I’m better,” he adds for good measure.

Gaby is quiet for a second as they watch Illya make small talk with the woman. “Are you prepared to bet your favorite suit on that?” 

“Of course,” he answers immediately, not looking at her. “I’m the best. It’s not even a competition. I can seduce anyone in this city.” Even though he truly isn’t interested in playing around anymore, he still continues his little games for moments like this. After all, this is his profession. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Either you do it by the time we board the plane for the next mission, or your Brioni belongs to me.” 

“Deal.” Napoleon agrees easily, briefly taking his eyes off Illya in order to inhale the scent of his new coffee. “So who’s my mark?” 

“Oh, it’s Illya of course.”

Napoleon drops his drink.


	2. Peaceful Contemplation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon observes Illya, trying to figure out his plan of attack, instead he finds himself watching something completely unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than I intended it to be, however I think it's a great setup for Napoleon to figure out exactly how he's going to seduce the enormous Russian. I'm also in love with the thought of fisherman!Illya and I needed to share it with y'all.

“My apologies, my apologies.” Napoleon wipes himself off as the waiter rushes forward to clean up the broken shards from his accident. He isn’t really focusing on the situation at hand, instead he’s panicking internally and trying desperately to hide it from Gaby who’s smiling at him from under the brim of her sun hat.

Napoleon’s heartbeat thuds wildly in his chest as he contemplates his newest challenge. Illya has all but ignored his signals, basically waving him off as nothing more than an annoying fly. Obviously he would like very much for Illya to fall for him, however he now has even more on the line than just his heart. There’s no way he will be forfeiting his Brioni to Gaby. She’ll have to kill him first. 

Or, well, he’ll have to find some way to successfully seduce the murderous hulking giant handsome KGB agent politely making small talk with the woman across the square. 

Napoleon focuses his attention back on Gaby. “I bet,” she starts as he finds his seat again and the waiter brings another coffee, “that she’ll ask him to dinner tonight.”

Napoleon opens his mouth to interrupt, wants to thank her for being _so fucking helpful_ , but Gaby holds up her hand, stopping him. “And I bet that he doesn’t go.”

“Why not?” 

“I told you, he’s not stupid. He’s got his own game. He’s reading her, figuring out if she’s just a confident young woman or if she’s what you seem to think, that’s she’s our person of interest.”

“So why won’t he go with her to dinner?” Napoleon asks, genuinely intrigued now. There’s not much about this kind of thing that he doesn’t already know, but he’s willing to listen to Gaby if he can gain some kind of insight on his newest mark. “That’s the perfect way to really figure her motives out.”

Gaby laughs. “Two reasons. One, because all confident women are dangerous, Solo, whether we hold nuclear triggers or not. We put pretty little boys like you on your toes and you don’t know what to do with us. You think we’re playing your games, but you’re actually playing ours.” 

Napoleon hesitates, he knows women play their own games, and he knows how to step into and around most of them, but with the way Gaby is explaining it he almost feels like a teenager again. He doesn’t play games with people he’s truly interested in, he never has. There have been a few people throughout his career whom he has discovered he cares for enough to stop his initial games, the ones he uses to read people, to figure out their motives, and to get what he needs from them. Illya is one of them.

But Napoleon is always on top, he’s the master of this game and he knows it better than anyone. Nobody plays it better than he does. “And two?”

“Two, because he already knows she’s not our person of interest.” 

“How? We don’t even know that yet.” 

“Best KGB agent in history? He knows. You'd be able to see it in his shoulders if he thought she was a threat.” 

Napoleon is quiet as he watches Illya interact with the stranger. He thinks over the things Gaby has told him. Sure, there’s a reason Illya is the KGB’s best, but he can’t be that good, can he? He’s still watching Illya and the woman, watches the way she places her hand gently on his arm and laughs at something he says. She tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder and turns ever so slightly so that the sunlight glinting off the waves illuminates her face. She’s beautiful.

He must have zoned out because a few moments later Illya is pulling up a chair at their table and taking a sip from Gaby’s proffered coffee. “You doing okay, Cowboy? You look a little… lost.”

“Fine, Peril, fine,” he answers, waving at the waiter and indicating another coffee. “What happened to not making contact in public?” 

Illya leans back into his chair, positioning himself so he’s facing the water. “No need to worry, I have made contact with Waverly and he has more information, says people we are looking for have made change of plan. We leave for Switzerland on first secure flight out. This will be in two days.” 

Both Gaby and Napoleon relax, and Illya returns Gaby’s coffee to her when the one Napoleon ordered him arrives. “That’s fantastic,” Gaby smiles, looking pointedly at Napoleon. “I suppose that means we are left on our own for the next two days. I would like very much to go to the theatre. Napoleon, do you have any plans?”

He rolls his eyes, but otherwise ignores her.

“Cowboy, Gaby has asked you if you have plans.”

When Napoleon looks at Illya his breath catches in his throat. The blissful look on the Russian’s face as he leans his head back, eyes closed to the sun would probably be enough to bring Napoleon to his knees if he were unlucky enough to be standing. Illya is a vision of Apollo, soaking up the sun, breathing deeply as though attempting to inhale the scent of the entire Amalfi Coast. A gentle breeze travels from the sea and catches in his sandy hair, ruffling it. 

While he watches, Illya cracks an eyelid and peers at him. “Well?”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

Illya huffs a short laugh and re-positions himself in his chair. As Napoleon watches, he realizes Illya keeps moving to best catch the breeze coming in from the sea. He doesn’t close his eyes again, instead he watches the waves crash onto shore and absently wraps his long fingers around the rim of his coffee while he stretches his legs out and crosses his ankles. This is the most relaxed Napoleon has ever seen the Russian. He’s completely at ease-- something Napoleon never really expected to see. Even when they’re meant to be relaxing, enjoying post-mission drinks, Illya is clearly still wound tight as a spring, ready to jump into action at the blink of an eye. 

Napoleon follows Illya’s gaze to where a small group of fishermen are hauling in their catch at the end of a dock nearby. He would swear he can almost see the Russian’s mouth water as the men fill basket upon basket of fresh seafood, preparing it to be delivered to market.

Surprisingly, Napoleon can easily picture Illya in another life, rising before dawn to climb into a fishing boat, catching his meals for the day and delivering fresh fish to his neighbors upon his return from the sea. He can see Illya, slightly more rugged, hauling in his nets, shirt off, tanned back muscles rippling as he sweats in the Mediterranean sunshine. Illya's muscles are not honed for battle, he doesn't carry himself as though ready to snap someone's neck, however he still walks with dignity, a man surviving off his own hands and selflessly providing for others, strength of a different sort radiating from him. 

He doesn’t know why this vision suits the Russian so well, but deep down Napoleon believes if given the chance, Illya would lead a very quiet life somewhere, perhaps in a simple cottage on the water, probably gardening with his elderly neighbors and reading old Russian novels on his veranda. 

Gaby breaks the peace and Napoleon’s vision disappears. He wants very much to murder her. “How are you so relaxed? This is not like you at all, I'm a little concerned.”

Kuryakin smiles openly at her and spreads his arms wide. Napoleon knows his partners are close with each other, and after what happened in Rome he thinks Gaby probably knows Illya a little bit better than he does, but even she gives him a concerned look, bordering on nervousness. 

Illya shakes his head at them and drops his hands. He doesn’t answer Gaby other than to wink at her and return his gaze immediately to the water. The look of peace on his face is incredible, as though simply watching the constant ebb and flow of the tides has calmed him all the way to the very depths of his soul. 

Suddenly, Napoleon understands. 

Illya's peace comes from the ocean.


	3. Fire and Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon hears an unexpected revelation about Illya's past.

It’s obvious Illya is completely enthralled by the sea, and staggering seeing the effect the ocean has on the Russian. Napoleon wonders if one of the reasons Illya became a powerboat champion was because it was a skill he could use on the ocean, or possibly because it was simply something he enjoyed that could get the younger agent out of landlocked Moscow and to the ocean regularly. Illya is a very deliberate human being, so it’s not difficult for Napoleon to believe either of these scenarios. 

The sun is bearing down on them, the heat of late summer in the Mediterranean tanning their exposed skin as the trio finish the last of their drinks. “Would either or both of you care to join me for a boat ride this afternoon?” 

“I’ll pass,” Gaby answers quickly. “I think I am going to go out for some shopping—I would very much like to go to the theatre tomorrow night and I’ll need something to wear. Besides, I believe there’s an auto show this afternoon. Do you think Waverly would mind terribly if I buy a new car?” 

Illya smiles fondly at her. “Are you certain you don’t wish for some company?”

“No, no,” she refuses politely. “You two enjoy your time together.” She stands, collecting her purse and leaning down to kiss each man on the cheek. “You taught me how to shop, and I can absolutely handle the cars on my own.” 

Illya smirks at Napoleon, who’s shaking his head at the Russian. He looks back up at Gaby. “Just don’t buy the squeaky shoes, no matter how much you love them.” Illya laughs and a grin lights up Napoleon’s face. “And mind your designers. Contrary to what some people believe, you can’t mix and match anything you want. There are rules.” 

Illya scowls at Napoleon, Napoleon winks back at him, and Gaby giggles. 

“I’d be happy to send the bill to Sanders anonymously.” 

Gaby blows them a kiss and disappears into the crowd. The men watch the people pass by for a second, amazed. “She gets better at this every day.”

“I can’t decide if I’m scared, intrigued, or impressed.”

“I am all of those,” Illya agrees.

Napoleon pays their bill and the two agents walk back to their villa. The amount of people staring at Illya as they pass stirs red hot jealousy in Napoleon’s gut. Relief floods over him, though, when he realizes Illya is all but ignoring everyone around him. He’s not really ignoring the throngs of people because observation and surveillance are as natural to him as breathing, but when skills come that naturally to someone, they can perform them flawlessly. Illya really is the best at what he does.

“A lot of people seem to like you, Peril.”

“I am tall. I stand out.”

“You certainly do, my Russian friend,” he replies, allowing Illya to pass him as they enter the narrow alley leading to their rented villa. “You seem so relaxed. No offense, but it’s off-putting. I don’t really know how to act around such a calm Peril.” Napoleon confesses this to Illya’s back as he follows the taller man into their rented villa.

“I like it here,” Illya states simply.

Napoleon nods. “I’m glad you do. It’s good to see you like this.”

They spot a glint of sunlight shining off the rolling waves on the other side of their veranda, and Solo shoulders past Illya in the foyer. “Meet me in 20 minutes at that dock with the fishermen we saw earlier?”

Illya nods once, silently, and crosses to the opposite side of the house and his own room. Napoleon watches the door close and tries to stamp down his unmitigated excitement at their impending outing.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Illya arrives at the dock it’s to find Napoleon lounging gracefully in the co-pilot’s seat of a sleek Riva powerboat, clad in swim shorts, eyes closed beneath a pair of aviator sunglasses.

“How did you--?”

Napoleon’s eyes flutter open and he slides his glasses down his nose. He smirks, winking at Kuryakin where he stands quietly on the dock, impressed. “Ready, Peril?” he asks, sitting up and indicating the seat next to him. “By the way, I don’t think you’ll need all those clothes. Not sure if you’ve been on the water much…”

Illya’s eyes narrow.

“…but you do tend to get a little wet.” Napoleon laughs as Illya tugs his shirt over his head and steps into the boat, still glaring at him.

“Thank you so much for the advice, Solo. I do not know how I got this far in my life without you.”

Clapping him on the shoulder as he climbs into the cockpit, Napoleon marvels at the soft skin underneath his hand before smoothing his thumb over Illya’s shoulder muscles lightly and giving it a gentle squeeze. 

Illya gives him a curious look. “Ready?”

“You’re driving, handsome.”

Napoleon leans back once more and closes his eyes again, leaving his arm to rest on the back of Illya’s seat as the Russian starts the engine, throws off the line, and eases them out of the slip and toward open water. The roar from the enormous engine prevents them from talking, so Solo lets Illya take the reins and enjoy himself. 

Once they get out onto open water, Napoleon opens his eyes to watch Illya play with the powerboat. The maneuvers Illya performs are incredible and Napoleon has to hold on for dear life or risk being thrown into the Atlantic Ocean. He does not have fond memories of the last time he wasn’t holding on properly. 

The adrenaline rush and the excitement are such that Solo finds himself laughing so hard his face hurts. He glances over to Illya where the younger man is standing at the controls, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the throttle. He’s got an enormous grin lighting up his features and a dangerous gleam in his eye. Solo had thought surveillance and hand-to-hand combat were where Illya truly excelled, and he’d previously seen Illya pilot a boat like this, but in this Illya is truly in his element. Napoleon thinks it all has to do with how much Illya is enjoying this. It’s incredible to witness Illya in his element, having fun at the wheel of such a powerful machine. It’s beautiful, and with his considerable skill, it’s hard to believe Illya came second at the Olympics. Napoleon wonders briefly if the Gold medalist is dead and then reconsiders. Illya enjoys this too much to become angry over it. The skill Napoleon is witnessing now comes from a place of pure joy and elation, not a place of competition. He’s a natural. It’s invigorating to be a part of. 

Eventually they slow and then idle, land visible a few miles off their stern. Illya throws himself into his seat, tosses his head back and laughs, full-bodied, so deep in his throat that every part of him seems full to bursting with joy. He exhales and finally quiets, staring out to sea. 

“Peril,” Napoleon starts, turning in his seat to face his friend. “That was incredible.”

Illya turns to look at him, the mirth not leaving his eyes. It’s a wonderful moment. Napoleon would call them friends, and he hopes that Illya would do the same, however this look between them is something new. It gives him hope he honestly didn’t have when he made the bet with Gaby. “Thank you, Napoleon.”

Napoleon reaches out and lays his hand casually on Illya’s shoulder. “Anytime.”

Illya looks back out at the water. “When I lived in New York I would watch people racing boats. I wanted desperately to rent a boat like this, to experience what it was like to enjoy this on my own terms, but I always had to be careful. I would never compromise the mission by enjoying myself and taking away from why I was there.”

Napoleon is quiet as he watches Illya. He does not ask Illya about the nature of his mission in New York, knows Illya would not be able to answer his questions if he wanted to. Instead, he focuses on another thought, one that stuns him as he realizes what it means. The sounds of the water lapping at the sides of the boat wash over them. “So your Silver medal—your competitions?”

“Were always ways I tried to lessen my shame,” Illya sighs. “I always liked being around water and it is a very good skill to have for KGB. I am just lucky that I also came to love it.” He lowers his head. “I have never told anyone that.”

Napoleon is floored. Looking at this man, this perfect government agent, this hulking figure who is trained to be confident in every single thing he does, Napoleon cannot believe he is confessing this to him. Napoleon knows that he annoys the everloving shit out of Illya-- It’s basically in his job description—but he also knows that Illya enjoys his presence. They have become friends over the past few months and Napoleon wouldn’t trade any of it for the world. Napoleon, although convinced there is no good way to tell him without risking a lot of brooding and possibly a punch in the face, desperately wants Illya to know that there is no part of his past that he should be ashamed of, fuck whoever decided familial shame was a thing, and to assure him that he truly is the best agent Napoleon has ever known. 

Instead, Napoleon reaches over the seat and presents a heavy basket. He hands it to Illya and watches as his friend pulls out two expensive wines, cheese, olives, and huge sandwiches on freshly baked bread. “I’ve heard the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

The smile that lights up Illya’s face again is definitely worth Napoleon’s Brioni… if that’s what it costs. Illya’s smile, Napoleon realizes, is easily carrying him way past the point of no return. Napoleon has always been attracted to Illya, and even though at first he would have gladly slept with the man and been done with him, he is staggered to realize just how much his feelings for Illya have evolved. 

Listening to Illya mumble in his native tongue as he looks excitedly through the contents of the basket, Napoleon realizes that his heart now speaks Russian and Russian only, and the sliver of cockiness he lost in the nervousness of the bet returns tenfold. The fire is back. He will not lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't seem to make these chapters as long as I want them to be. Maybe it's been too long since I've written any considerable length. Maybe it's because these chapters keep fighting me and tell me exactly when they're done.


End file.
